Chain-saw Roar Brings Couples Closer Together

There will be a suburban baby boom here in about eight months. Most experts in reproductive biology will attribute it to the hurricanes.

No TV. No lights. Can't dance.

But if we were able to pinpoint exact conception times, we would find life actually began for these children several days after the storms.

Because these are not Hurricane Babies. They are Chain Saw Babies.

To explain, we visit the home of a hypothetical family in Maitland.

For years, the husband has been little more than a trustworthy, billable-hour commuter for his family. And then, suddenly, an oak crashes down during Charley and blocks the driveway.

And so that Sunday morning, as his wife sips her Starbucks latte while reading my column, she is jolted from her chair by a loud, angry, almost violent roar.

She runs to the front door, and there is her man in the driveway. There are sweat stains on his Maitland Soccer Coach polo shirt. His arms are taut. He has a death grip on a crazed, snarling, mechanized badger.

It is a chain saw.

Her first instinct is fear. But then a new sensation surfaces. For the first time since she has known him, he looks just a little bit dangerous.

She watches the thick oak limbs fall before him. When he is done, the lack of air conditioning that previously caused her to thwart his advances is no longer an impediment. In fact, it is . . . preferable.

Of course, I wouldn't know about any of this firsthand because I'm afraid of chain saws. But I see my friend Mary talk about her man tackling a tree that fell on their garage. She says, "He stepped up to the plate."

So I ask her: "Let's say you are single and go in a bar where your husband and I are sitting. The only thing you know about us is that he used a chain saw and I did not. Would that affect your decision?

Mary smiles: "Let's just say it would be a factor."

And now for an important rebuttal from the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission: Chain saws are neither toys nor aphrodisiacs, and we are appalled by this irresponsible column. Every year there are almost 30,000 chain-saw injuries. The average wound requires 110 stitches to close. HMO patients simply get the end of the stump dipped in hot tar.

And now for a word from my co-worker Joe: "Chain saws are like shooting a gun!"

Joe is a very dangerous man.

But he would not have hesitated, as I did, when a neighbor's tree came crashing into my yard during Jeanne. The next day, I went out there with my pruning saw. My wife watched my glistening right arm work that saw, digging it ever deeper into the flesh of the tree. Nothing.

After calculating it would take 15 years to finish, I asked my buddy Hanque to bring over his chain saw. He arrived in a red, battered pre-sissy-design Ford F-150 pickup. My wife greeted him. He kissed her and I stood by meekly, allowing it to happen.

The tree fell before Hanque's saw.

"Want to try?" he asked.

Not really. But I remembered Mary's words. I stepped up to the plate. I pulled the trigger and the chain spun furiously. My wife watched as the tree surrendered its trunk to me. That night, she smiled slyly. And then Baby Zoey toppled over and began screaming.